Therapeutic
'''Therapeutic '''is a short piece of literature written by Ellie. Therapeutic There's something therapeutic about being alone. About sitting comfortably on a creaky swing, in a desolate park, the silence embracing you with the soft, comforting yet chilling wind; a cloudless blanket of stars stretches endlessly over your head, encasing you into this world much more effectively than the short metal gate, rusted and weak, which circles the playground. In one hand, you hold a mug or flask of a hot drink, tea or coffee or cocoa, the wisps of steam floating away calmly with the breeze. In the other palm, you hold a pen or pencil, your fingers caked in dark ink or smudged graphite, and every time you rub your hands together to trap the warm air, the ink or graphite latches on to your skin. On your lap sits a notebook, small, the pages smooth and lined; adorning the pages is another world, a world of heroes and villains and lovers, a world of picturesque landscapes and gasp-inducing plot turns and tear-jerking happy endings - all consisting of a neat scrawl of words, delicately smudged by your hand brushing against them as you write swiftly, occasionally pausing as you await for the right words to flow from the pen. As you breathe, wisps of your breath waltz in the air around you in rhythm to the melody of the birds. About strolling along a deserted beach, the sand silently crunching beneath your shoes, the air gradually warming as the sun slowly creeps over the horizon, releasing a beautiful orange glow which slices through the night sky and transforms it to a dusky baby pink. Water stretches out as far as you can see, the surface perfectly flat apart from the small waves which arrive from the outer oceans. You kick the shallow parts of the water every now and again, sending droplets of water soaring through the air and diving back into the sea, forming ripples which expand and spread further and further until you cannot see them. The air warms again as the sun sails higher into the sky, and the birds come out to play. About sitting on an inside window ledge, watching the rain drops chase each other down the window, listening to the incessant patter of the heavy rain outside; your fingers touch the cool glass, tracing the paths of the drops, wishing you were outside and free instead of being trapped indoors. Becoming bored, you take your headphones and slip them onto your head, and suddenly, a pulsating beat attacks your ears and makes your head pound painfully. After the shock of this sudden noise, your brain begins to adapt, and soon your dry lips are tracing over the words of the song. A patchwork quilt of grey wisps cloaks the sky, releasing the rain which has barricaded you indoors. When I'm alone, thoughts and feelings swirl in my mind, often colliding with each other. I can burst into tears and laugh helplessly in the space of five minutes. Either a neat line of words or an untidy scrawl can flow from the pen. Either a muttered few words or an entire song can spill out of my lips. There's something therapeutic about being alone.